


Advent

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The month before <i>that</i> Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colorless

**Author's Note:**

> This story is prequelish to my Honorable Intentions series. The chapter titles are themes from the table of prompts at Live Journal's sherlock100. Many thanks to you all for reading, and for the lovely comments!
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London seemed devoid of color that late November morning, the fog and overcast draining the greys of asphalt and stone, muting to silence any painterly efforts to bring a note of cheer, and even rendering the first of the city’s Christmas decorations lifeless. All entirely in keeping with Sherlock’s mood, of course.

He was well aware that depression was natural to the recovery process. He’d been injured before, though never so severely, and there had been the occasional stint in rehab as well, so he had expected it. He was prone to lowness of spirits even in the normal course of things, extraordinary intelligence not necessarily being conducive to a long and happy life, but a lengthy stay in hospital followed by weeks confined to 221B were miles beyond normal. Pain, weakness, boredom, frustration, and beneath it all, a nagging sense of dread: all had worn on him to such an extent that it was nothing short of miraculous his family and friends had not abandoned him to wallow in ill-temper alone.

Yet the fact was, they had not. For the most part.

Sherlock’s family, of course, had little choice but to put up with him. Once he was past the worst of it, his parents had returned to their home in the country, traveling to London by train to check on him every week or so. His brother’s intrusions were more frequent and less appreciated. John, observing signs of agitation in his patient, strongly encouraged Mycroft to keep his visits brief, and, to Sherlock’s constant delight, was utterly indifferent to the British government’s advice, veiled threats, or protests.

His release from hospital had been expedited by the fact that a licensed doctor was in residence in Baker Street. John had moved back to the flat immediately after the confrontation at Leinster Gardens and the “domestic” that had followed. Sherlock knew John was still paying the rent on the Watson domicile in Maida Vale, however, and for a while had paid Mary the occasional fraught visit, too. Both had seemed encouraging signs -- not that John and Sherlock indulged in any rational discussion of the situation. The subject, so central to their lives at present, seemed to be off limits, creating a very awkward elephant in the room. And beyond that, Dr. Watson was so annoyingly devoted to his friend’s recovery that it was difficult for Sherlock to get away with bloody _anything._  So the arrangement was far from ideal, yet there was a degree of comfort that would not have existed had it been necessary to engage outside help. Mrs. Hudson indulged them both with tea, their favorite biscuits, and local gossip twice a day without fail, and Lestrade popped in fairly regularly. Sherlock should have been content.

It was October before John released Sherlock to light duty. There’d be no running hell for leather about London’s warren of streets and alleys yet a while; no swarming up walls or leaping fences. Daily physical therapy would continue, and only the mildest of diversions from NSY were permitted: John had been quite adamant. Lestrade had taken these orders to heart, and Sherlock had been offered nothing but threes, and a couple of fours in all this time…  until today.

This was a six, and would require a visit to the lab at St. Bart’s.

His reaction to this realization was disturbing. A strange and seemingly inescapable combination of positive and negative impulses prodded at his composure, and was due to a single factor. All five foot three inches of her. Of those few beings he considered to be his friends, Molly Hooper was the only one who hadn’t come to visit him during his convalescence. In fact the last time he’d seen her (in the flesh) was the morning before he’d been shot.

_Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar._

There had been no question of the outcome, so it had been punishment, plain and simple. Facing Molly Hooper in such a state was the last thing Sherlock had anticipated or wanted, but he was in no condition to gainsay an enraged John Watson. Mary had been more sympathetic -- she had not contradicted her angry spouse, but the look she’d exchanged with Sherlock just before they’d all invaded Molly’s lab had been clear enough. There had been nothing for it, however, so Sherlock had steeled himself against Molly’s inevitable disappointment and probable tears. Molly, his gentle friend, the girl who’d been so infatuated with him that she’d risked everything for him when he’d come to her for help in defeating his great enemy. The woman who mattered.

Only things had not gone quite as anticipated.

She’d been appalled at the state of him, then swiftly angry, and growing more so as she ran the required test with brisk efficiency. The results were accurate, as he’d known they would be, and damning. Yet none of them had been more surprised than he when she’d marched up and slapped him hard across the face. Repeatedly.

_How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with and how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry!_

Her words were clipped, furious, and imbued with the cutting edge of truth.

But Sherlock, even at his lowest still had his pride and, as usual, had deduced his opponent’s weakest point.

_Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring._

Which was another lie -- the first bit, at least.

She was hurt, as well as angry, now. _Stop it! Just stop it!_

And Sherlock knew at once that she’d ended her engagement because of him. _More fool she!_ had sneered his inner devil, but beneath that was satisfaction, almost a kind of happiness, juxtaposed with an unaccustomed sense of shame at what she’d been presented with that morning.

He would address it all at some point -- these _feelings_ \-- but the little scene had moved on and then was over: the focus turned to Magnussen.

Now, months later, it was still on Magnussen, but the final confrontation with that terrible man was still a month off -- Christmas Day -- whereas a confrontation with his pathologist was imminent. He couldn’t imagine she was still angry with him, after all this time, after he’d been shot, and twice near death. Yet she had made no effort to contact him. Perhaps his relapse into heroin ( _for a case!_ ) had been the final straw for her. It was a fear he’d long suppressed, and now it was an immediate issue.

As the black cab carried him swiftly through the colorless city, he drummed his fingers nervously on his knee, frowning blackly. He knew she would treat him in a professional manner, that was a given. But he wanted more than that.

He would have to apologize -- sincerely, this time. Never an easy thing with him. He huffed discontentedly, slouching in the leather seat. If only it would clear the air between them.


	2. Friends

“Sherlock! Good to see you,” said Mike Stamford with a smile.

“Yes…” said Sherlock absently as he scanned the lab. “Where’s Dr. Hooper?”

To Sherlock’s annoyance, Stamford’s eye glinted with amusement, but the man replied, blandly enough, “She went upstairs. Third floor linen storage.”

“Don’t you have lackeys for that?”

Mike chuckled, but basically ignored this. “Do you need to use the lab?”

“Presently.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and left.

*

The lift was, thankfully, unoccupied. He punched ‘3’ and then, aware that he was not at his best. made some quick adjustments to eliminate any signs of disapprobation: a straighter stance, a smile that was both charming and friendly. He committed these to memory, then allowed his scowl to return.

Ridiculous that his nerves were so on edge. He’d known Molly Hooper for six years. They were colleagues and friends. More than friends. (He permitted his mind to touch, just for an instant, the memory of the night after his “Fall”.) But she’d changed in the two years he’d been gone. Or he’d changed. Maybe both. At any rate, their relationship had now undergone a strange reversal, leaving Sherlock very much on the back foot (or no foot at all -- but he would not consider that unless it proved unavoidable). The discomfort of the situation made him cross, and a scene flashed through his head: Molly staring up at him, wide-eyed with dismay as he growled, _Now see here, Hooper, what do you mean by--_

The lift stopped and the doors opened.

Abruptly he straightened again, his aggressive fantasy evaporating. He stuck his head out and peered furtively down each of the visible corridors. No Molly.

_Right, then._

He had long ago memorized the floorplans of St. Bart’s and knew exactly where the third floor linen storage was located. There was no point in further delay. He set out, silently cursing the telltale rapidity of his pulse rate.

He passed several persons who looked curious, but thankfully did not otherwise attempt to communicate with him. His destination lay at some distance from the lift, but presently he turned down the narrow side hall and found it deserted -- except for his pathologist, emerging from the door of the storage room, a neat bundle of folded sheets tucked under one arm.

He conjured the smile again -- surprisingly easy to do -- and saw her give a start at the sight of him striding toward her. And there it was, exactly what he’d been hoping for: a brief flash of joy, lighting her eyes, her whole expression, just for a moment, before memory intruded.

Memory must be overruled. “No!” he said and, with a hand on her arm and at her waist, firmly escorted her back into the privacy of the storage room.

“What are you doing? Sherlock!”

He liked the tone -- not a squeak, but a bit unsteady -- and she gave a small gasp as he turned her to face him, the door behind them swinging closed of its own accord. The amber of the safety lamp threw more shadow than light on her face. He released her and said, roughly, “I’m sorry.”

“You should be!” she said, tartly, straightening, smoothing her lab coat.

“Not this! That morning. Back in June..”

She stilled, considering him. Not smiling.

“I mean it,” he said, but then couldn’t help muttering, “Even though it _was_ for a case.”

“ _No_ ,” she said, barely restrained anger in the word.

“No. Forget I said that. I just… how can you still be angry? It’s been months!” He frowned, perplexed.

She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Sherlock, do you have any idea of the number of post-mortems I’ve done on lives ended in that manner?”

 _Oh!_  “Molly,” he said, with gentle logic, “there are other specialists here, _you_ wouldn’t have to--”

She hit him. With her fist this time, hard against his chest. “You _idiot!_ ”

“ _Ow!”_ He caught her wrist and held it. “Again? Really?”

“If you insist upon being _willfully stupid_ , then _yes!_ ”

He studied her. “You’d rather _no one_ had to do a post-mortem on me.”

“You’ve deduced correctly, Mr. Holmes,” she said wryly. “Now let go of me this instant.”

He released her wrist, but said, “I don’t approve of these violent tendencies you’ve acquired. I had a _bullet_ dug out of my chest, not so long ago.”

“That was nowhere near where you were shot!”

“How would you know? You never came to see me!”

“I did!” she exclaimed, but then a conscious look altered her expression. “I did,” she repeated, more subdued. ”You might not remember. You were… sedated. Though you did speak to me. In fact, the last time I visited you told me to go away.”

Exasperated, he said, “You’re correct, I don’t remember. And how could you take seriously anything I said under such conditions?”

“No, you meant it.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, added, “I may have been weeping.”

“Well, that explains it. But--”

“And then I heard about your… about Jeanine. And finally saw what had been in all the papers.” He scowled, but before he could speak she went on. “The details were absurd, of course, but there was truth beneath it, wasn’t there?”

“No! It was all for a case. The same one.”

“Was it?” she said, sadly. “But that’s what you do, isn’t it? Anything for The Work.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Molly--”

“But it’s not my concern, really. Is it? I’m sorry, I just have to keep reminding myself--”

“Shut up!” he barked, angrily. “It _is_ your concern, as much as it is anyone’s!”

She stared at him. Then shook her head a bit, and said, “Sherlock… what do you need?”

The old question. The query that had been the prelude to so many things, up to and including saving his life. On multiple occasions. “I need my friend back,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

The emotion of the moment shocked him, throwing him quite thoroughly off balance. He wanted to grab her and shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to kiss her… more than kiss....

But then she reached up to dash a tear from her cheek, and his hope and equilibrium were restored.

She gave a sound that was on the edge of being a sob, took a deep breath, and said, “All right. But you will promise--”

“Molly,” he said, a warning in his voice.

But she went on, insistently, “ _You will promise_ that if you are tempted -- in a dangerous place -- you will call me and talk to me first!”

He frowned.

She added, “I won’t call Mycroft.”

His frown lightened. “You’ll just call John. Who’ll call Mycroft.”

“I might call John, but neither of us will call Mycroft, not unless the situation is truly dire.”

“Imminent death?”

“Precisely.”

He found himself disturbed that she hadn’t asked for the greater promise: that he would never take drugs again. _He_ knew that it was not a reasonable thing to ask of him, but that she clearly knew it and did not believe him capable of the more stringent curb to his behavior, brought to the fore a feeling of remorse.

He sighed. “Very well. You have my promise.” There was an odd but noticeable niggling of fear in the back of his brain, but he tamped it down with some determination.

She nodded, and a smile touched her lips. She cleared her throat a bit, then asked, “Were you here to use the lab?”

“Yes. I’ve been _allowed_ to consult on lesser cases since the beginning of last month, but this is the first six Lestrade’s given me.”

She chuckled at the exaggerated disgust in his voice, and he smiled crookedly, too.

“Come on, then, let’s go down.” She ran her fingers over the sleeve of his coat as she moved around him. “Mike will be wondering what’s taking me so long.”

“No, he won’t,” said Sherlock, rather smugly, as she pushed open the door and the light from the hallway streamed in. “I told him I was looking for you.”

“Oh, marvelous!” she said, with a roll of her eyes.

He grinned at her rising color.

*

Two hours later he was texting Lestrade the solution to the case.

“You’re finished already?” Molly asked, coming over to him.

“Mmmm. Only a four after all.”

“Oh, too bad,” she said, with spurious sympathy.

He pressed a final _Send_ , put his mobile away, and looked up at her. Her eyes were full of amusement. _Fond_ amusement. He said, blandly, “Violence _and_ sarcasm, Dr. Hooper?”

“Not my areas?” She gave him a prim little smile.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

She said, trying to sound offhand, “There’s a new Thai place around the corner from my flat I’ve been meaning to try. Would you like to go halves on some takeaway and watch a bit of crap telly before you go home?”

“Oh my God, yes!” he exclaimed, not bothering to hide his relief and delight at the suggestion. “You have no idea how tired I am of 221B and John’s constant nagging.”

“Let me guess: plenty of sleep, healthy meals, no smoking?”

“ _And_ the most _excruciating_ physical therapy twice a day. It’s been bloody torture, for months!”

“Poor Sherlock!” she chuckled. “Well, hopefully one evening off won’t set you back too much. But perhaps we should obtain your doctor’s permission?”

He gave her a glare. “If you dare to even think of calling John you will regret it.”

“Oh, will I?”

He was brought up short by the tilt of her chin, the sparkle in her eyes, suddenly afraid he would be forced to carry out the vague threat in some manner (several interesting possibilities occurred to him in rapid succession), altering their relationship in a way for which he was not prepared. Yet.

But then she grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t call him. I’m a doctor, too, you know. Thai food and crap telly is your prescription for this evening.”

He gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dr. Hooper.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Holmes,” she said, and greatly to his surprise (and possibly hers, as evinced from her delightful blush) bent and kissed his cheek.


	3. Enemies

This particular December in London was proving to be one of the coldest in recent years. “We’re going to have a White Christmas!” Molly predicted, eyes bright, cheeks and the tip of her nose pink.

“Possibly,” Sherlock admitted, glancing at the grey skies before looking down at his companion once more. “How many garish holiday jumpers do you own, Miss Hooper?”

“Plenty for the whole of December,” she replied with great satisfaction.

He sniffed, but could not quite keep his smile at bay. While he made do by deigning to wear a vest beneath his Dolce & Gabbana shirt, Molly was having a grand time pulling out all her brightest and warmest jumpers in honor of the season. To his knowledge, she had not worn the same one twice in the last fortnight. Jumpers were, of course, more or less _de rigueur_ in the necessarily cool temperatures of her natural habitat, but he was amazed at the number she seemed to have acquired specifically for the holidays.

Once again he’d been researching a case in Bart’s lab when her shift had ended and she had stated her determination to go to Trafalgar Square to view the Christmas tree, fabulously lit and decorated, and nearly 70 feet in height, a yearly tradition since the end of the second world war. The two of them, bundled up in their prefered modes, were now standing before said tree, at the edge of a large crowd gathered to watch the performance of a group of very good carolers in Victorian costume.

 _God rest ye merry gentlemen_ _  
_ _Let nothing you dismay!_

It was very cold, and Molly was standing very close beside him, her gloved hand tucked in his arm. He considered the pleasurable feeling thus evoked. They had certainly been making up for lost time these last two weeks, though not in any official way, of course. Simply in a friendly, _use my flat as your bolthole whenever you like_ sort of way.

There were numerous advantages to this arrangement. Molly seemed to enjoy his company, even his often acerbic observations on the execrable television programming she favored  (though they’d had an interesting turn-up when she’d insisted he maintain silence during the latest film version of _Pride and Prejudice_ ). For his own part, the relaxed atmosphere prevailing at Chez Hooper was balm to his soul -- as was Molly herself. Her kindness was coupled with a subtly penetrating intelligence, and her odd sense of humor was always entertaining, as was her occasional awkwardness (he had been gratified ( _relieved!_ ) to note signs that she was still infatuated with him, in spite of everything). His animal appreciation of her slender self was almost beside the point.

Almost.

Molly dressed in her usual business attire was one thing. Molly lounging about in soft, clinging yoga garb, or yawning over morning coffee in the kitten-bedecked sleep tee that was short enough to afford him an occasional glimpse of her exquisite satin-and-lace-knickered backside was quite another.  

But beyond these obvious benefits, John Watson’s reaction to the situation had proven most satisfactory. The good doctor had not been pleased in the least to have his patient out from under his thumb, but Sherlock had ignored his friend’s tedious protests and ill temper. The man needed time to think, without distraction, and Sherlock’s resolve to provide this had paid off in spades. From things said and unsaid, Sherlock had deduced that John was finally ready to reconcile with his errant but still beloved wife.

Christmas Day could not come too soon.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed and vibrated in the pocket of his Belstaff. He checked it, and lifted his brows.

“What is it?” Molly asked quietly. “A case?”

He glanced at her, hesitating a moment. Then he showed her the message from Mary Watson.

**Come by, when you can. Need to talk.  ~ MW**

Molly looked up at him. “Are you going?”

Sherlock nodded. “Do you want me to take you home? Or do you want to come with me?”

Molly pressed her lips together. “I am fully capable of getting home on my own--”

“I _know_ that!”

“--but yes, I’d like to come with you. Only…”

He frowned. “What?”

She turned to him, and lifting her free hand, slid it under his heavy coat and placed it briefly, lightly over his chest, where he’d been shot. “She did it, didn’t she?”

He stared at her, rendered momentarily speechless.

A slight smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “Are you buffering?”

He scowled. “No, I’m not _buffering!_ Come with me, Miss Hooper.”

He took her hand and pulled her along behind him, out of the crowd, to a particular kiosk at the side of the square. After purchasing a cup of hot chocolate for each of them, he guided her around the side to a spot where he knew they would be free of observation by cctv cameras.

Her large brown eyes looked deceptively innocent, peering up at him as she took her first sip of chocolate. He tried for a note of derision as he asked her, “Now, what makes you think Mary had anything to do with my being shot?”

She cocked her head. “Well, it was just a guess. Until now.”

He ground his teeth a bit.

“Don’t be upset!” she said, quickly. “It was a lot of things. John suddenly leaving Mary when he did, after they’d been so happy. You -- the great consulting detective -- being unable to provide any sort of description of the shooter. And… something you said when I visited you in hospital that last time.”

He frowned. “What did I say?”

“Well, as I told you, I was weeping when you became aware I was in the room. And you said, _Even Mary would know better than to treat me to tears. Bloody go away, Molly!_ ”

He gave a mirthless chuff of laughter at her imitation of his deep, slurred voice. “Why didn’t you say something, if you suspected such a thing?”

“It never really came up, these last two weeks,” she said slowly. “And it’s obvious you’ve forgiven her. You must have good reasons for doing so.”

There was a long moment of silence before he finally said, “I do.”

She nodded, the simple sadness and concern of her expression unaltered.

The sense of relief that swept through him was palpable. “Molly… come sit on the curb with me and I’ll tell you.”

**o-o-o**

They arrived at the Watson residence in Maida Vale shortly after seven o’clock. A very pregnant Mary was briefly shocked when she opened the door to find the two of them standing there.

“Molly! I… I didn’t realize… Sherlock, were you two out on a _date?_ ”

“Noooo,” said Sherlock, the word seeming something of an absurdity in the context of his relationship with Molly. “I took her to see the tree in Trafalgar Square after her shift ended. We were just thinking of ordering some takeaway when I received your text, so we brought along enough to share.” Sherlock held up the bag of small cartons.

Mary’s brows rose, looking between the two of them. But then her eyes settled on Molly’s face with dawning horror.

Sherlock said, “Yes, she knows, Mary.”

“You _told_ her?”

Molly said, quickly, “Only after I’d already guessed. I’m so sorry, Mary.”

To Sherlock’s surprise and exasperation, Mary’s face crumpled in a most unattractive way as she burst into tears.

Molly, however, was not at all surprised by this. She shed a few tears herself as she embraced Mary and led her back inside to sit with her on the sofa, murmuring soothingly..

Sherlock attempted to ignore them as he closed the door and went about setting up dinner, fetching plates and forks and opening a bottle of moderately dry Riesling, just the thing to go with the curry dishes they’d brought. As he did so, however, he was disturbed to note some stacks of boxes, packed for moving, and a number of unassembled cartons leaning against a wall. He refrained from commenting while the two women were involved in commiseration, halting explanations, and, at long last, mopping up, but when they finally rose from the sofa and came to the table, Sherlock said to Mary, “What’s this, then? Or need I ask?”

“I expect you’ve deduced the situation,” Mary said, her voice unsteady, but raising a brow at him as she sat down in the chair he was holding for her.

He seated Molly, too -- his mother would be quite satisfied with his behavior -- then sat down himself. He said, as he poured the wine, “You fear your estrangement from John is a permanent thing and he might go so far as to take the child from you after you give birth. You are planning to move away before this can come to pass.”

Both women looked appalled at this bald statement of facts.

“Sherlock!” Molly said, admonition in her tone.

Mary, obviously on the verge of tears again, elected instead to pick up her glass and drink down half her wine at one go.

But Sherlock, spooning some rice onto his plate, said, “I don’t believe you need be concerned, however. There is every indication that you will soon be together again, and that the situation with Magnussen will be resolved favorably.”

“What indication?” Mary demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. “I know John. You have to trust me this time, Mary.”

Mary bit her lip.

“Are you certain?” asked Molly.

“Quite,” said Sherlock. There was no use frightening them with a lack of confidence. 95% was as near certain as one could be in such a circumstance.

Mary looked a little more hopeful, but asked, “And what about Magnussen?”

Sherlock picked up his wine glass and held it to the light in a toast. “To Christmas Day,” he said, and smiled. “I have a plan!”


	4. Lovers

_People look East the time is near_  
_Of the crowning of the year._  
_Make your hearts fair as you are able,_  
_Trim the hearth and set the table._  
_People look East and sing today:_  
_Love, the Guest is on his way._

**o-o-o**

 

Sherlock saw less of Molly as Advent drew to its festive and, this year, somewhat nerve-wracking end. It was a busy time, preparations being what they were. Since the general population also had a greater tendency toward both crime and mortality at this season, Molly worked a number of double shifts, though her schedule sometimes coincided with Sherlock’s.

“It’s as well murders are up 5.2% this year, otherwise I’d never see you,” he observed a few days before Christmas as they examined the body of the latest contributor to this statistic.

“Always a silver lining,” she murmured, and her eyes twinkled at his appreciative chuckle.

Shopping and baking took up much of what free time she had. Sherlock preferred the latter, and quite shocked her one evening with his inordinate appetite for mince tarts.

“Sherlock, you barely eat as a rule, and these were for the staff party!” she complained, looking over the decimated platter. “Now I’ll have to make a whole new batch!”

“Excellent idea!” he agreed, licking buttery crumbs from his fingers. “Where did you learn to bake like that? These are better than Mrs. Hudson’s!”

Molly said, primly, “ _Science plus Love equals Baking_ , as one of my chemistry teachers used to tell us. She liked bright jumpers, too, and she used to bring us homemade biscuits every Monday morning.”

Sherlock winced a bit at the treacly sentiment, though he thought the idea of Monday treats an excellent one. He also stayed late that evening to sample the fresh batch of mince tarts.

He was making preparations of his own, too, of course. On Christmas Day he would drive up to his parents’ home with Mary Watson and Bill Wiggins, meeting Mycroft, who would be flying in from a conference in Edinburgh, and John, who would be coming from his sister’s. And in the meantime, he did not neglect the duties of the season. His “Baker Street Irregulars”, the network of homeless citizens that was so vital to his chosen profession, came in all ages, shapes, and sizes. It took time, but not one was forgotten in those days leading up to the “crowning of the year”.

There were other gifts to be acquired, too, but he was not an enthusiastic shopper and he kept putting off this chore until at last it was Christmas Eve and time had run out.

Molly was on the schedule to work Christmas Day and Boxing Day, but Mike Stamford had sworn she’d not be called in on Christmas Eve. She spent the morning volunteering at a soup kitchen in Islington, and when Sherlock showed up at noon, both to check on her in this rather questionable locale and to avail himself of her sympathetic ear in complaining of the necessity of last minute shopping, she said, “I’m off soon, why don’t you come with me to Hyde Park, to the Winter Wonderland? They’ve an enormous Christmas Market, you can probably find everything you need, and there will be mulled wine to ease the pain!”

They had a great deal of mulled wine, as well as roast pork sandwiches, and gingerbread, and he found all of the required gifts in that single and memorably painless afternoon. Molly was in her element, enjoying the people watching, the red-cheeked children, the over-the-top decorations, even the shopping with unabashed glee. Sherlock found her Christmas cheer surprisingly contagious (and rather wished there was no fateful appointment to keep on the morrow).

It grew dark early at this time of year, but the beauty of the countless fairy lights made braving the more extreme cold worthwhile. However, when Sherlock noticed his companion’s teeth chattering, he said, “Molly, we should go.”

“Please can we stay just a bit longer? There are fireworks in a little while.”

Sherlock shook his head, but smiled, too. It wasn’t often he felt himself to be the more mature of the pair of them. “Look, we should at least warm up. The pods are heated on the ferris wheel. Shall I get tickets?”

She clapped her hands, ecstatic at this suggestion. “Oh, yes! I’ve only been on the London Eye once, back when it first opened!”

The queue was quite long, but they stood close together as they waited (Sherlock pulling her in front of him and wrapping his Belstaff around her at the last). Then they were boarding and Molly sighed with relief as they sat down in comfort, though only for a few minutes. As they climbed slowly above London, they both got to their feet to stand near the glass.

“It’s so beautiful!” Molly exclaimed as the view spread out before them. The vast city was brightly lit at all seasons but now was fabulously a-glow. She turned to Sherlock and took hold of his hand. “Thank you for today!”

He looked down at her. She was such a strange combination of elements. Her scientific and worldly knowledge might have jaded a lesser creature, but Molly’s purity of heart and strength of mind never faltered. He wondered now at his lack of perception in the earlier years of their acquaintance. He was, as he had admitted to all and sundry at the Watsons’ wedding, a ridiculous man.

He said, now, in reply, “It’s been a great pleasure, Miss Hooper.”

A convention. A platitude. But he had never spoken truer words.

As they rose high above London, the fireworks began, a blaze of glory across the black sky.

**o-o-o**

They took the tube, then walked the few blocks to her flat, Sherlock reluctant to leave her for various reasons.

“This is a fairly safe neighborhood, but you never know who you might meet on such a dark night.”

“Santa Claus?” she suggested with a grin.

He chuckled.

The door to her building was festooned with the ubiquitous fairy lights, so he stopped a few yards away, near a shadowed corner.

“I’ll leave you here. Big day tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”

She let go of his arm, but turned to face him. “I had such a wonderful time today. Thank you, again.”

He held up the bag he was carrying. “It’s I who should be thanking you. I’ve never enjoyed last minute shopping more.” And he set the bag down. A peck on the cheek...

She looked up at him and said, “Sometimes I think it’s a shame it never really worked between us. The timing or… or other things.” And she smiled, wistful but, all-in-all, content.

And the snow began to fall.

He’d been strangely chilled by her words, an odd, dull ache. But now one large perfect white flake landed on her nose and her wistfulness vanished entirely. “Snow!” she exclaimed, looking about in sudden delight before her gaze returned to his. “Our White Christmas!”

The ache of cold dissipated, replaced by a frisson of anticipation as he took his courage in his hands. His voice wasn’t quite steady as he replied, “The _timing_ is impeccable,” and pulled her close (a flash of amusement at her widening eyes) and kissed her.

He wasn’t rough, but he was insistent, remembering how to do this (recent practice with Janine may have helped), remembering how to use every skill and asset available to him to reduce his chosen inamorata to quivering desire. Yet, as they continued, as she gave an odd little gasping sob under his lips and slid her arms up about his neck, he found that he, too, was profoundly affected. Thought actually fell away. Their shared history, their uncertain future: nothing mattered in this moment but her slight body warm against his, the softness of her skin, the taste of her. He whispered her name between kisses, one hand tangled in the silk of her hair, the other sliding down to her waist, so slender under her coat and woolen jumper. _Molly…_

**o-o-o**

Some time later they were standing very close in the shadows near the brick wall, the shelter of his Belstaff again protecting her from the cold and much of the snow.

“Sherlock… what is this?” she asked, running nervous fingers along the lapels of his suit coat.

“It’s… good timing.” He took a deep breath and said more seriously. “You still care for me.”

Her face was a pale oval in the faint light. “You know very well that… always. _Always!_ ”

He thought then of what tomorrow had in store. Christmas Day. John and Mary. Magnussen. Fear of what he might lose was now a very real thing, and he was disturbed, even a little angry that it had come to this. Mycroft’s supercilious tones came to mind…

But he shoved the voice firmly away. He could not regret this.

He said, “I have to go. There are things I must do tomorrow.”

"I know. Give my love to John and Mary.”

“I will.”

“And Mycroft.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, tell him Merry Christmas, at least!”

“I suppose that’s inevitable at some point.”

She laughed, and he bent and kissed her again, just a kiss goodbye before he let her go.

She backed away, out from the shelter of his coat. “I’ll see you in a few days!” she said, sudden tears in her voice. She gave a little wave, and hurried off.

“I certainly hope so, Molly Hooper,” he murmured in reply.   

He picked up his bag, but watched until she would be safe inside. At the last second she turned and lifted her hand to him, a final wave. Then the door closed and she was gone.

He walked all the way back to Baker Street in the falling snow.

 

~.~


End file.
